[Rat Pack 02] - Luck Be a Lady, Don't Die Page 11

  “Can I help you gents?”

  “Your name Eddie Gianelli?” one of them asked. He was clean-shaven and I could smell his cologne. He had the kind of face that needed to be shaved a couple of times a day.

  “That’s me.”

  “Somebody wants to see you,” the other one said. He was the same age as his buddy, mid-thirties, a little smaller but still six feet. They stood with their hands in their pockets.

  “Who?”

  “You’ll find out,” the first one said.

  “I’m gonna need you boys ta take your hands outta your pockets,” Jerry said from behind me.

  Cologne guy looked at me and asked, “He got a rod on us?”

  “He does.”

  “That ain’t nice.”

  “People have been trying to kill us lately.”

  “We ain’t here to kill nobody,” the smaller one said.

  “Then take your hands out of your pockets,” I said, “and we’ll talk.”

  They did as they were told, brought their hands out empty except for pinky rings.

  Jerry came up right behind me so they could see his .45.

  “But you are carryin’, right?” he asked.

  “We’re carryin’,” the second guy said.

  “Hey,” the first one said, “ain’t you the Jew?”

  “That’s me,” Jerry said. “Who’re you?”

  “Teddy Bats,” he said. “You and me we did a thing together once.”

  Jerry was quiet, then said, “Oh yeah, I remember. Teddy Battaglia, right?”

  “That’s right.” He nudged his partner. “This is Jerry the Jew I tol’ you about.”

  “Why’s he got a gun on us, then?” the other one asked. “We’re on the same side.”

  “Are we all on the same side, Jerry?” I asked.

  “Yeah, we are, Mr. G.”

  “So the man who wants to see me would be ...”

  “That’d be my guess,” Jerry said, lowering his .45.

  “You wanna come with us?” Bats asked. “Or follow in your own car?”

  I found the question encouraging.

  “Why don’t we follow so you won’t have to bother bringing us back,” I suggested.

  “You’re supposed ta come,” the second guy said. “He ain’t.” He jerked his head at Jerry.

  “I go where he goes,” Jerry said, “or he don’t go.”

  “Listen you Jew bast—”

  “It’s okay, Mikey,” Bats said.

  “I don’t like—”

  “I said it’s okay.”

  Mikey fell silent.

  Bats said, “We’ll wait in our car for you to pull outta the driveway.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ve got to get my keys.”

  “No problem.”

  The two of them turned and left. I switched off the light and closed the door.

  “Jerry,” I asked, “am I right in assuming that we’re going to see—”

  “—Mr. Giancana,” he finished. “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Is this safe?”

  “Well,” he said, “if they was gonna whack us they coulda done it now—or tried. And I don’t think they’d be lettin’ us take your car.”

  “Is there anything I have to do when we get there?” I asked.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, genuflect, kiss his ring?”

  “Mr. G.,” he said, “just be respectful. That’s all he wants.”

  Thirty-Three

  THE HOUSE WE FOLLOWED Bats and Mikey to was a few blocks off the strip, a million-dollar place across the street from a popular golf course. That’s all I’ll say about where MoMo Giancana lived when he was in Las Vegas.

  Giancana’s nickname for many years was “Mooney,” and that was what everybody called him from his years growing up in Chicago to his early years as a mob enforcer. However, when he became powerful enough he changed his own nickname to “MoMo,” which some said stood for “Mo Money.”

  Jerry explained this to me in the car, as he gave me a crash course in how to speak to Sam Giancana.

  “Don’t ever call him Mooney,” he warned. “He’s killed men for that. In fact, don’t even call him MoMo. You don’t know him well enough.”

  “I’ve heard Frank refer to him as MoMo.”

  “He likes Mr. S.”

  “What do you call him, Jerry?’

  “Me? I call him Mr. Giancana.”

  “Not Mr. G.?”

  Jerry frowned at me and said, “You’re Mr. G. Why would I call Mr. Giancana that?”

  “Gotcha.”

  The house was in a gated community, so one of Giancana’s boys had to get out of the car and arrange for the gate to be opened. He got back in and we followed him up a long driveway.

  We all got out of the car and congregated in front of the house.

  “I gotta frisk you,” Bats told me.

  “Go ahead,” I said lifting my arms.

  He patted me down, satisfying himself that I wasn’t carrying a gun.

  “Jerry,” Bats said, turning to face the big guy.

  “I’m carryin’,” Jerry said. “You already know that.”

  “Yeah, I do,” Bats said, “but I gotta take it from you. Nobody gets in to see Mr. Giancana carryin’ a piece.”

  Jerry balked.

  “Come on, Jew,” Mikey said. “Give.”

  Jerry pointed a finger at Mikey and said, “You I don’t like.”

  “I’m cryin’,” Mikey said.

  “Jerry ...” Bats said, warningly.

  Jerry looked at me so I nodded my head and he gave up his gun. Some power, I had.

  Bats separated the gun and clip, put them in separate pockets of his coat.

  “You’ll get it back when you leave.”

  I hoped he meant handed back.

  * * *

  We all went into the house, where Bats and Mikey removed their coats and hung them on hooks. I’m no expert but even I could see the bulges their guns made under their suits. I was wearing a wind- breaker, Jerry one of his own ill-fitting suits.

  “That a Brooks Brothers?” Bats asked him.

  “Yeah,” Jerry said, sourly, “it just don’t look like it when it’s on me.

  “Gorillas shouldn’t wear suits,” Mikey said.

  Although he was more then six feet, and Bats was even taller, Jerry towered over both of them. I thought Mikey was playing with fire mouthing off to Jerry, but I didn’t like him, so I didn’t warn him.

  “This way,” Bats said. “Mr. Giancana is waitin’.”

  Jerry and I followed them down a long dark hallway, past a bunch of rooms that were all dark. It reminded me of a house that gets closed for certain seasons, when the occupants are away on vacation. I had no idea if Giancana was just using it, or if he actually lived there.

  At the end of the hall we came to a pair of double doors. Bats knocked and opened one door. This room was well lit, and standing in the center of it was short, dumpy, homely Sam Giancana, the most powerful gangster in Chicago—and, some said, in America.

  “Here’s the pit boss, Mr. Giancana,” Bats said. “And the Jew.”

  “Jerry,” Giancana said, “nice to see you.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Giancana.”

  “This is Mr. Gianelli?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Giancana’s suit was more expensive than anyone else’s, and it fit him perfectly. Unfortunately for him, it didn’t make him any taller—and yet, in many ways, he was the biggest man in the room.

  “Mr. Giancana,” I said. “Can I ask what I’m doin’ here?”

  “You’re here so we can have a talk, Mr.—can I call you Eddie? That’s your name, right? Eddie? Or Ed?”

  “Eddie’s fine.”

  “Bats, you and Mikey take Jerry to the kitchen. He can always eat.”

  I couldn’t take my eyes off Giancana. By the time I looked behind me they were gone and we were alone.

  “Nervous, Eddie?”

  “Yes, sir
.”

  “Don’t be,” he said. “Care for a drink? I’m gonna have one.”

  “Bourbon.”

  “Good man.”

  He went to a side bar, built two bourbons and then walked across the floor to hand me one. He was half a foot shorter than me, yet my heart was racing. But then, it had been doing that a lot, lately. I hadn’t yet stopped shaking from finding Dave Lewis’ body.

  “Have a seat, Eddie.”

  I was grateful for the invitation. My legs were kind of weak.

  * * *

  I picked a plush chair and lowered myself into it. He chose another that was a little higher than mine. Subtle.

  “We have mutual interests, Eddie, you and me.”

  “We do?”

  “You know we do.”

  I sipped my drink.

  “I’m talkin’ about Mary Clarke.”

  “Mary . ..”

  “Listen,” he said, leaning forward, “I’m gonna make this easy for you. I know about Frank and Mary. I don’t care. I like them both. Frank’s a stand-up guy; Mary’s a cute kid.”

  I wondered if I was hearing right. Frank was sleeping with MoMo’s girl and he didn’t care? For a panicky minute I wondered if Giancana knew I slept with Judy Campbell six months ago?

  “Look at me, Eddie,” Giancana said, sitting back. “I ain’t no matinee idol. I’m not Dean Martin, right? But I got broads crawling all over me. What’s one more? Mary worked for me and I liked her. Still do. I don’t want anything to happen to her.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “See? Like I said, interests in common.”

  “I see.” I didn’t want to see. I didn’t want to have interests in common with one of the most dangerous mob bosses in the country. I just wanted to find the girl and go back to my pit.

  “Good,” he said. “Then you won’t mind filling me in on what’s been happening?”

  Filling him in? I gave it about a second of thought and then figured, where’s the harm? He might even have something to suggest.

  So I told him, adding in all the bodies that were involved.

  “That’s a lot of dead men,” he said. “And no sign of the girl?”

  “Nope.”

  He swirled the ice cubes left in his empty glass. Was he signaling that I should get him a refill? Wasn’t I the guest?

  “This don’t sound good,” he said, finally.

  “I know it.”

  He wasn’t looking at me. More like through me, but then he focused.

  “She’s on the run, and you gotta find her.”

  “Maybe you have some men you’d rather put on this—”

  “No,” he said. “All I have with me are those meatballs. I’d have to fly somebody in, and somebody would notice. I don’t want anything to happen to Mary, Eddie, but I can’t be involved. Frank is layin’ low on this, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Then it’s all up to you,” he said. “But you got Jerry to help out. He’s a good kid.”

  “He’s already saved my life more than once.”

  “See? He’s valuable to have around, not those two idioti.”

  That was not a hard Italian word to translate.

  “Finish your drink,” he said. “You have work to do.”

  I finished, but I wasn’t ready to leave. This was an opportunity too good to pass up.

  “Mr. Giancana, do you know two men named Capistrello and Favazza?”

  “Arrampicatori!” he said, with distaste.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He groped for the English translation.

  “Upstarts! Wanna-be’s, you know?”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Whoever sent them is not in my Family, Eddie,” he said. “In fact, I don’t know any of the Famiglie who would employ them.”

  “Then who’s tryin’ to kill her?” I asked. “And why?”

  He walked over to my chair, patted me on the cheek and said, “That’s what you’re gonna find out. Capice?”

  He took my right hand in a handshake, pulled me from my seat and walked to the door with me.

  “Where are your parents from, Eddie?”

  “Sicily,” I said. “At least, my father was.”

  “And you grew up in Brooklyn?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Your father ever beat you?”

  “He, uh, let me have it once or twice, to straighten me out.”

  “My father beat me every day,” he said, with his hand on my shoulder. “Every day, rain or shine. You know what he said?”

  “What?”

  “It was for whatever I did that day that he didn’t know about.”

  “Must’ve been tough.” I meant the situation, but he misunderstood.

  “He was,” he said, “and he made me tough.”

  He opened the door for me.

  “Good luck, Eddie. Find that girl and keep her safe, eh?”

  “How do I—I mean, do you want to know when I do? Can I call—”

  “You leave it to Jerry,” he said. “He’ll get word to me.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Uh, thanks, Mr. Giancana.”

  “Eddie,” he said, slapping me on the back. “Call me MoMo.”

  Thirty-Four

  WHEN I CAME OUT of the room—study, library, sitting room, whatever it was—I found my way back to the front door. As I reached it Jerry came from another direction, followed by Bats and Mikey, who was cradling his hand, his face white with shock.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “It was amazin’,” Bats said. “Mikey wouldn’t shut up, you know? Like before? The Jew reaches out real quick. I didn’t see nothin’, but I heard it! He just snapped Mikey’s middle finger.”

  I looked at Jerry, who shrugged, looking bored.

  “We have to get back,” I said.

  “Lucky you drove your own car,” Bats said. “I gotta take Mikey to the hospital.”

  “Can we go now?” Mikey whined. “It hurts!”

  “Snap!” Bats said, shaking his head. “Just like that.”

  “I need my gun,” Jerry said.

  “Oh, sure.” Bats went to his coat, retrieved the gun from one pocket and the clip from the other. He handed both to Jerry, who joined them once again, then slid the gun into his holster.

  “You know where’s the nearest hospital?” Bats asked.

  I gave him directions.

  “Thanks.”

  Jerry and I left first, while Bats was helping Mikey with his coat. “Snap, huh?” I said.

  “He wouldn’t shut up.”

  “What about the other guy?” I asked. “He keeps callin’ you the Jew.”

  Jerry looked at me and said, “I am a Jew. I should snap his finger for that?”

  * * *

  When we got back to the house, it was dark. We hadn’t left any lights on. As we got out of the car, Jerry eased his .45 from his holster.

  “You think we need that?”

  “I just wanna be careful.”

  We went to the front door, found it locked. I used my key to let us in and turned on a lamp near the door.

  “Gimme a minute ta look around,” Jerry said.

  He took two and I stayed where I was until he got back. He’d already put his gun away.

  “We’re clear.”

  “I need some coffee.”

  “I’ll make it.”

  We went into the kitchen.

  “How’d it go with Mr. Giancana?” he asked, plugging in the percolator.

  “Great,” I said. “He told me I could call him MoMo.”

  “He musta liked ya.”

  “Oh yeah,” I said, “we’re crazy about each other.”

  He started the pot and then turned to look at me.

  “Whataya so mad at?”

  “People getting killed,” I said, “a girl on the run. Frank hidin’ from MoMo Giancana when he doesn’t have to. I’m mad because I’m involved again, the cops are gonna want my ass and all I ever try to do is hel
p.”

  “Mr. S. don’t hafta hide from Mr. Giancana that he’s sleepin’ with his girl?”

  “MoMo doesn’t care,” I said. “She’s a sweet kid but to him she’s just another skirt. He all but told me he didn’t care if Frank was nailin’ her.”

  “Then what’s all the fuss?”

  “Seems like everybody wants to help her,” I said. “Even me, and I never met her.”

  “It don’t figure.” He shook his head. “Not if she’s just another dame.”

  “Well, Frank seems to feel more strongly about her than that.”

  “Still don’t figure to me,” he said. “Mr. Giancana, Mr. S., they can get any broad they want. Marilyn Monroe too, I bet.”

  “Probably.” I thought about Frank with Ava Gardner and Juliet Prowse. I thought about Angie Dickinson, wondered if she’d ever been with Frank. Then I wondered if she’d be at the premier.

  “Maybe Frank likes this girl because she was just a hat check girl.”

  Jerry shook his massive head. The kitchen of my little house wasn’t big at all, and he dwarfed it. When the coffee was ready he poured two mugs and sat across from me. It helped when he sat. “You got her picture?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Danny still has it. I’ve got to get it back. Why?”

  “Just curious,” he said. “I wanted to take a look.”

  “She’s just a blonde, Jerry,” I said. “That’s all the picture shows.”

  “Then why are so many people getting’ killed over her?”

  “You know,” I said, “that’s what’s keepin’ me in this. Not so much wanting to find her alive but trying to figure out who wants her dead.”

  Jerry sat back in his chair and looked around the kitchen.

  “We got any donuts or somethin’?”

  Thirty-Five

  I WOKE THE NEXT MORNING wondering if I should tell Frank Sinatra that he wasn’t doing anything behind Sam Giancana’s back. But what would that accomplish? Would he feel foolish? Or lose interest? Maybe it was exciting because it was dangerous. Knowing that MoMo didn’t care would take that away.

  I showered, dressed casually—the one perk of being off the clock—and went downstairs.

  “About time,” Jerry said from the sofa. He slept there, but now he was sitting, fully dressed, just waiting. “I’m starvin’.”